BrewDog Paradox Isle Of Arran (Batch 16)
Toasted like a slice of bread, lightning struck and crispy black charred. This is yer bank account evaporating. Ice cubes on a summer sidewalk. Diggin’ it? At least you’ve got a chilled beverage called Paradox and a gathering of homies.
Scraping yer throat like rusty spoon, this stout is no creamy mudslide or oily syrup smile on a pancake. It’s an angry cyclone of carbonation trapped inside a glass coffin by a drunken wizard from the Isle of Arran.
There is cruel and bewitching trickery afoot.
The kid gloves are off and yer raw adult tasting knuckles are about to get bruised. Proceed with light footsteps. Be a Maya priest on a bloody, phallus-puncturing trip beyond our known boundaries of perception. Each moment is full of caution and each sip a tear in the fabric of spacetime.
A faint glimmer of light reveals a vine covered wall in front of you. Beyond these spells and trances lay (very real) ancient hieroglyphs showing the transformation of yer pretension against Scottish ales. These are the signs of William Yaxka Wallacnal—the great Scot ruler of Maya foreign exchange students in the 990s.
Jesus! What blasphemy is this? Chronologies rended asunder. These shredded ribbons of spacetime can’t mend themselves. Pour one or two ounces of Paradox around the rips and tatters. A guaranteed fix to bring reality back in order.
Just remember to pour one out for the homies. And yer bank account.
-Pedro
- 2 years ago
